


Thank You

by Crollalanza



Series: Cats [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2472905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Kenma's eighteenth birthday and everyone wants to wish him well, but Kenma doesn't care, because the one person he wants around hasn't been in touch for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank You

**Author's Note:**

> There's something about Kenma that always makes me want to hug him and cry a little. I'm sure he would neither want nor thank me for that as he has far better people in his life.  
> This was going to be for the Kenhina week on tumblr, but it kinda failed on practically every count - ha!

He didn’t feel different. Opening his eyes when the chequered blue and white curtain billowed in the breeze and let the pale autumn sunshine filter in through the gap and into his bedroom as it did every morning, Kenma didn’t think anything had changed.

There was nothing new from yesterday. He still had school. Would still make his way to volleyball practise. And he’d come home where his mum would fuss and his dad would carp, and nothing would have altered in the slightest.

But no one else would see it that way. He yawned, wondering if he could feign sleep, perhaps lie here all day and not have to see anyone, do anything, talk at all.

_‘Beep-boop.’_

He closed his eyes.

‘ _Beep-boop.’_

He screwed them up tighter.

_‘Beep-boop.’_

UGH! Whoever it was sending messages, they were persistant. It was six, far too early for Kuro. He fumbled for his phone, then realised with a groan that he’d have to get up so he could unplug it from the charger. His mouth gave a very slight smile. _Shouyou._ That explained the earliness of the message. He was probably up for breakfast, or about to set off to school, maybe he was going on a run or a bike ride, grabbing some early practise, or ...

 _How do I know so much about his life?_ he pondered, because they hadn’t spent that much time together, not the way Kenma and Kuro had, or even Kenma and Yamamoto. But then Shouyou had entered his life with all the force of a supernova, and he was impossible to ignore.

**_‘Happy Birthday Kenma!’_ **

**_‘Happy 18 th Birthday!’_ **

**_‘Did you get anything good?’_ **

With one hand rubbing his eyes, Kenma typed out a reply. ‘Idk. No one’s awake yet.’

**_‘GAHHH!  Sorry sorry sorry did I wake you up i wanted to wish you happy birthday’_ **

‘No, I was awake.’

**_‘Was i the first?’_ **

_First what?_ Kenma frowned, then let out a sound that was part chuckle part sigh. _Oh, to wish me Happy Birthday, I suppose._  

‘Yes, you were. No one except you gets up this early, Shouyou.’

**_‘gtg I’m going for a run b4 breakfast. Have a great day!’_ **

‘Thank you.’ 

He didn’t add ‘I will’.

 

It was his birthday. He was now eighteen. It didn’t mean much to him beyond the fact that people who knew would expect him to be happy for the day. They’d expect some kind of change within him, but really, it was just another day, and not one he particularly relished.

(Shouyou wouldn’t understand that. Kenma could imagine Shouyou even more hyper, roaring through the day like a tornado, nothing able to stop him twisting and laughing – so glad to be alive.

The very thought of Shouyou’s birthday celebrations exhausted Kenma.)

Kenma’s mum asked him to make a list every year, which she stuck limpet-like to, never deviating. His grandparents sent him money, they had done since he was nine, and he’d write stiff letters of thank you tomorrow, telling them how he was going to save the money for something special.

His grandparents liked that. Both sets deciding that the compensation of having a grandchild with a sensible head on his shoulders more than made up for his lack of demonstrativeness. One year he’d bought volleyball shoes at Kuro’s instigation, and his grandma on his dad’s side had been alarmed.

(“Volleyball, Kenma-chan. Isn’t that too dangerous for a little boy like you?”

“He barely moves, Mama! He’s one of those players who stands and lets the others do all the work. And it’s volleyball. Not exactly strenuous.”

“But he could still get hurt. And he’s not an athletic boy, Shou-chan. Not like you were at that age. He should buy books instead.”)

So now he lied and wrote the same note each year, changing a word or two, not mentioning the games and comics he bought, or that he was saving for a better laptop with more memory.

_‘Beep-boop.’_

Shouyou _again?_  

**_‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY,KENMA-SAN!’_ **

No, it was Inuoka. Kenma raised his eyebrows; he should have known. Another restless boy with boundless energy. Someone else who seemed to consider sleep, or sitting around doing nothing, a waste of time.

‘Thank you.’

**‘See you at practise!!!’**

‘OK.’

He’d mentioned practise, just after he’d wished him happy birthday. Kenma chewed the inside of his mouth. Were they linked? They weren’t thinking ... they wouldn’t ...

Would they?

Surprise party. It had happened last year. He’d walked into the gym, head down, engrossed in a new game, when the streamers had been unfurled, a loud cheer had erupted and Yaku had proudly presented him with a cake lit with seventeen candles.

And despite the fact that everyone there had been the closest approximation of friends he had. Despite knowing that they all appreciated and maybe-actually-possibly liked him not _just_ because of volleyball, Kenma had taken one look at the cake and backed out of the door.

Kuro had brought him back. He’d run and caught up quickly, just as Kenma was by the school gate. He’d not stopped him, though, but carried on walking alongside.

“I warned ‘em,” he murmured. “Said ya didn’t like a fuss, but Yaks thought ... uh ... I dunno. Yaks wanted to do something for ya, and Lev ... well, ya know what he’s like. He likes to make a big deal out o’ birthdays. Got too excited and dragged Inuoka up in his enthusiasm. Rest of ‘em thought it’d be fun, I guess.”

“It’s fine,” Kenma had muttered. “Think I’ll ... uh ... go home.”

 “What? So you’ll skip practise over a bit of cake?”

“No ...” Kenma had swallowed. “I ran off. They must think I’m rude.”

“Hey, you run off when Lev asks you to set for him, it’s not like you duckin’ out’s unheard of.”

Kenma had stared up at Kuro from under his fringe. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I dunno.” Kuro had shrugged and twiddled the front of his hair. “Come back. I’ll tell ‘em you needed a piss, or you have a cake phobia, or you’re sugar intolerant, or –”

“Cake phobia? Is that even a thing?”

“Some people have phobias about coat hangers, Kenma. That’s what makes ‘em phobias, ‘cause they’re irrational.”

He’d taken a breath. They hadn’t been that far from the gates; Kuro had deliberately slowed his pace and Kenma, before he’d realised, had come to a stop.  “I could say Shouyou called, and I had to take the message.”

“Mmm, that’d do it.” He’d sounded uninterested but there was always something a bit too casual in Kuro’s tone when they talked about Hinata. “ _Has_ he called?”

“Before breakfast.”

And so Kenma had gone back to the gym, fixed an odd kind of smile on his face, and accepted a slice of cake. When he looked back, it had been kinda fun, but it had still been embarrassing. He’d hated having to look happy because even if he was, everyone assumed he was sad. He just had the kind of face that looked sullen when he wasn’t actively smiling.

So they’d better not throw a surprise party this year, ‘cause with Kuro not around, no one would drag him back. And even if Lev tried his hardest, Kenma wouldn’t be smiling.

Not this year.

He stared at his phone, half willing it to ring, but he didn’t know how he’d react if it did.

Kuro knew he didn’t much care about birthdays. And he knew Kenma hated the twenty layers of fuss that went along with it. So, although he’d always got him a present and maybe a card, there’d never been a big deal attached to it. It’d come barely wrapped – in a plastic bag usually – the only sign that it was a gift would be the sticky patch where he’d picked off the price tag.

 

“Kenma-chan, are you awake?”

With a start, he checked the phone again. It was seven o’clock. His mum would be preparing something special for breakfast. It was what she did on birthdays, making sure they three of them sat down to celebrate. (Even if two of the three breakfast table occupants really didn’t want to be there.)

“Ahh, the birthday boy!” she exclaimed, a beaming smile on her face. “Isn’t Kenma looking handsome, Shou-san.”

His father grunted something, not looking up from his paper. Kenma bowed stiffly to him, but managed a smile and a hug for his mum. She’d gone to a lot of trouble. Not only was she frying Tamagayaki, but she’d bought new jars of pickles, placing the umeboshi jar close to Kenma’s plate.

“Help yourself to rice while it’s warm, Kenma-chan,” she cooed, ruffling his hair. “You need a good breakfast.”

“Stop fussing over the boy,” Kenma’s dad snapped. The he pressed his lips together, and lowered his paper. “Happy birthday, Kenma-kun.”

There he’d said it, and Kenma had heard. Hostilities, or rather the cold war between them, could continue. His eyes focussed on the stack of beautifully wrapped presents – the majority were small, rectangular and flat. Games he’d asked for, gifts his dad no doubt thought he should have grown out of.

_‘Beep-boop.’_

**_‘Did you get anything nice?’_ **

 “Who the hell messages you at this hour of the day!”

“Uh ... it’s Shouyou,” he said apologetically. “The boy from Karasuno. I’ll ... uh ... I should reply, or he’ll keep texting.”

“Or turn your phone off!” growled his dad.

“Does he want to come over?” his mum asked hopefully. “I could buy a cake, and your special birthday dinner will stretch for four.”

“Mum,” Kenma muttered, turning his gaze on her. “Karasuno isn’t a Tokyo school. It’s in Miyagi.”

“Oh.” Her mouth turned downward, and although she looked away, Kenma had already seen the glint of hope in her eyes change to pity. “It is such a shame that Tetsu-”

“Doesn’t matter.” Kenma shovelled some rice into his mouth; it was dry and unswallowable, so he gulped at his tea, scalding his tongue and the back of his throat.

“Perhaps he’ll be back this weekend,” she persisted.

Kenma shook his head but didn’t elaborate. Since starting university in the north of the city, Kuro had been back twice, duty visits to his mum, which, Kenma gathered, hadn’t gone well because she’d got herself a boyfriend. Kuro had shrugged over it at first. ‘At least he doesn’t hit her’ was his faintly damning opinion, but it was clear his mum’s new partner and Kuro tolerated each other only for his mum’s sake.

So Kuro had kept his visits to a minimum.  Busy studying and a sudden social life not revolving around volleyball, he kept in touch with Kenma via text and the odd call. He had invited him to visit, but somehow that had never got off the ground. And then, the Summer break happened, but Kenma had been busy with training camp, so Kuro had returned to the city and got himself a job.

“Student life is expensive, Kenma. Books, rent, food and ... uh ... parties,” he’d said, yawning. “But you gotta come here sometime. It’ll be cool.”

_And feel even more out of place?_

There were only eleven months between them, but now, more than any time before, it felt like a lifetime of experience gaped between them. And although they still texted, the calls, those awkward calls when Kenma had become unaccountably tongue-tied, had stopped.

_‘Beep-boop.’_

**_‘Happy Birthday. Hope it’s a good one. Give Lev a kick if he starts acting up ~Y.’_ **

“That boy again?”

Kenma didn’t bother looking at his dad. Instead, he picked up his phone and began to tap out replies to both Shouyou and Yaku.

“I asked you a question.”

“It wasn’t Shouyou, if that’s what you were asking,” Kenma muttered.

“Don’t any of your ‘friends’ know it’s rude to be on the phone at meal times?” his dad snapped. The emphasis on the word friend was a telling one, an attempt at provoking Kenma to admit whatever truth he feared the most for his son.

“Not like reading the paper, at _all_ ,” Kenma replied.

“Who was it?” his mum said hurriedly, obviously hoping to dissipate the tension between them before it escalated.

“Uh, Yaku Morisuke. He played on the team last year.”

“And he’s still in touch. That’s nice. Which one was he?”

“The Libero.” She still looked puzzled. “He wore the white shirt, Mum.”

“And he doesn’t want to come over?”

“He’s at university. With Kuro.”

“Oh.” Her face fell a little. Even though Kenma knew she was only trying to make things special for the day, he was still irritated. He swallowed more rice, mixed in some of the plum pickle, and said no more.

 

“Do you want _anyone_ over?” she asked again as he was hitching his kitbag onto his shoulder. “Invite the team, if you like. I can always cook more. Or perhaps make it the weekend, that way I’ll have more time to prepare.”

“ _No_ ,” he replied far more vehemently than he’d meant. He reverted to a mumble when she flinched. “Mum, I’m okay. Thanks but ...” Unable to articulate anything she’d consider an adequate excuse, he opened the door and left.

It was the feeling he’d disappointed her that left him hollow. He didn’t care that he fell so far below his dad’s expectations of what a son should be, but hers he crumpled over. She wanted him happy, but didn’t seem to realise that he couldn’t always be that way. Sometimes, occasionally, when the clouds in his mind cleared, he _was_ happy. And sometimes, when the skies darkened to bleak grey, he was acutely sad. Most of the time, he felt not much at all, adrift because nothing mattered. Emotions the more passionate people around him failed to understand.

His dad wanted a loud son, one he could joke with over a beer, about sport and girls and TV shows about cops and hard men. His mum wanted a popular son. Or one that was academic, loving books, or reciting poetry, coming to her with his problems, so she could dish out safe, staid advice.

Instead, they had closed-off Kenma, who played volleyball almost by accident, and had long ago realised he’d never live their dreams.

(“It’s like you have a mute button on, Kenma, but that’s okay. I’m loud enough for both of us.”)

 

He felt the tension in his shoulders roll away as soon as he stepped through the school gates. There was no danger his classmates would demand cake, or start to lavish attention on him all for the sake of one day. It wasn’t that anyone disliked him, particularly. Yamamoto  used to growl, saying girls found him ‘cute’, but they didn’t talk much to him, and as he never initiated conversation, then he could pass his day speaking to no one, until it came to practise.

 

“Kenma-san! Happy-”

“SHUT _UP_!” Yamamoto yelled, grabbing Lev by his shirt.

“But I only want to say it,” Lev wailed. “I’m allowed to wish him a happy day, aren’t I?”

“Yamamoto, let him go,” Kenma murmured. He tried a smile at Lev. “Thank you.”

“Did Suke-san text you?” Lev asked. “He said he was going to, and he also made me promise not to make a fuss. You will tell him, I didn’t make a fuss, won’t you? I didn’t think saying happy birthday was a fuss. It would be rude, wouldn’t it, to ignore your birthday, Kenma-san? Don’t you think so?”

His head was spinning in the same way it did when Shouyou bombarded him with a heap of questions. Both, Kenma realised, shared a genuine wish to please, to make the person in front of them happy. Shouyou brought sunshine whenever he turned up, Lev brought laughter. “Yaku-san texted me, Lev, and it’s cool. Uh ... I need to get changed.”

“Yes and quickly, Kenma-kun,” called out Coach Naoi. “The Preliminaries start next week and if we’re going to get to Nationals again, then having strops over cake aren’t going to help. Haiba, set up the net with Inuoka instead of socialising!”

 

Practise passed happily for Kenma. There was no fuss. The team were coming together (after the disappointment of the Inter-High preliminaries, it became imperative that they meshed properly for the Spring Tournament, especially as both Kenma and Fukunaga were going against their senseis’ advice by not giving up volleyball) and he felt more confident that they’d do well in the tournament having had this extra time together.

Eighteen months ago, he mused as he wandered home, he’d planned to ditch club activities as soon as Kuro left. But everything changed with the game against Karasuno, or rather the spark lit by Shouyou’s enthusiasm and their chance encounter.

 

His dad couldn’t make it home in time for dinner. His mum hid her disappointment, or tried to, telling Kenma that it couldn’t be helped but work had told him a project needed to be delivered on time.  Kenma wasn’t bothered, except he felt more obliged to be happy and that was hard when –

“Was practise good?  Did your friends give you anything nice?”

He shook his head, picking at the salted mackerel she’d prepared. “We don’t do that sort of thing.”

“But you had presents last year. And didn’t someone bake you a cake?”

“It was a one off,” he said gruffly.

Her eyes widened. “Did they forget?” Oh, that’s naughty of them, but they’ll probably remember tomorrow and come in with a huge card and-“

“No, Mum, they didn’t forget. But we don’t give presents. Coach Naoi offered to buy us all pork buns, but I wanted to get home.” He took a breath and forced a smile. “I didn’t want to fill up on stuff knowing you’d cooked.”

As he suspected she was satisfied and even gratified by his excuse, squeezing his hand and smiling so wide, it almost made him happy.

“Phring, phring.’

He grabbed his phone, fumbling at it so it clattered across the table. His mum picked it up, smiling resignedly as she handed it to him.

“Take it upstairs, if you want, Kenma-chan,” she whispered.

He smiled back, for once happy, but the sudden stop and thump of his heart, that lump clogging his throat, which had appeared when the phone first rang subsided almost immediately.

“Kenma!”

“Shouyou, hi.”

“Happy Birthday. Are you having a good time?”

“Uh ... I s’pose.”

“Where are you?”

“Bedroom. Just finished dinner.”

“Oh.” Shouyou sounded at a loss, but not for long. “Are you going out at the weekend?  With the team I mean?”

“Uh ... no ... probably not. We have practise and ... I’m not bothered.” Lying on his bed, he stared at the ceiling, letting Shouyou’s questions wash over him. The good thing about Shouyou was he was never disconcerted or put off by Kenma’s apparent disinterest, and as he listened, giving the odd response, or telling him about Inuoka’s progress, Kenma could feel himself relaxing, as if he was bathing in a warm bath, or basking in delicate sunshine.

“Nishinoya-san was eighteen, too,” Shouyou was saying. “We all went out to a restaurant – even the first years. It’s where Tanaka’s sister works, so we got free sodas all night. You remember her, don’t you?”

“Uh...” He screwed up his eyes, trying to summon the picture. He was getting something -- a blonde girl wisecracking with the coaches. Kuro had been impressed, he remembered, quirking one of his smiles at her, and winking at the coaches when they’d left for a night out.

“She drove me and Kageyama to Tokyo,” Hinata explained, not waiting for Kenma’s reply. “Anyway, she said we were the noisiest crowd she’d had there in a long time, but I don’t think she minded really.”

“Sounds fun,” Kenma lied.

“Yeah, it was super-cool. And Asahi-san was there. He’s promised to come and watch us at the Spring High even though he says he gets far more nervous watching than playing. I don’t get that.  I just get _frustrated_ if I’m not playing, don’t you?”

“Not really,” he replied, and snorted, picturing the puzzled expression that always graced Shouyou’s face when Kenma refused to match his excitement.

As Shouyou launched into another story, something about ‘Ennoshita-san getting as angry as Captain-san’ (Kenma assumed he meant Sawamura) his attention was caught by a tappity-tap noise somewhere in the room. With the phone to his ear, and murmuring ‘uh-huh’ at the relevant moments, he got off the bed to investigate.

It wasn’t something _in_ the room, but outside, a branch of a tree, perhaps, scratching at the window. Except, it wasn’t windy outside, and the apple tree in their garden had had its branches lopped recently.

“Uh ... Shouyou, I need to check something. Hold on.”

He put the phone down and opened the window, just as someone in the garden, launched something in the air, hitting him on the brow.

“What the-” He peered through the darkness, trying to make out the lone figure standing down there and why he or she was so desperate to get Kenma’s attention, when they could have easily rung the doorbell. His eyes adjusted, his mouth involuntarily twitched into a smile, a smile far wider than any he’d worn today. Or for a while.

“Kuro?”

“Kenma! Let me in!”

“Why... why are you here?”

“Let me in and I’ll explain.”

He flung the window open wide, and watched as Kuroo shinned up the drainpipe, hoisting himself onto the window ledge, all legs and gangling arms, a wide lazy smile on his face.

“You could have used the door,” Kenma muttered. “Mum won’t mind you being here.”

“Nah, more fun this way. Kinda like when we were kids.” He leant back out the window, and for the first time, Kenma saw a cord attached to his wrist. He was pulling something up behind him, another trick they’d used as children to smuggle contraband sweets and biscuits into the house. Or inappropriate movies that had scared the living daylights out of the pair of them, although neither had admitted it.

“Why are you here? Haven’t you got lectures, or work, or something?”

He flapped his hand. “Pfft, not important.” He glanced around the room, his eyes flicking to the phone on Kenma’s windowsill. “Sorry, was I interrupting something?”

“Oh ... no, not really.” Picking up the phone, he turned away slightly, hoping Kuro couldn’t see the way his hands were trembling. He was here. He’d actually bothered. “Uh ... Shouyou, I gotta go. Thanks ... uh ... for calling.”

“Sure, sure,” He sounded disappointed, but Kenma cut him off with a resounding goodbye.

“Hey, you coulda chatted a bit longer,” Kuro muttered, not quite meeting Kenma’s eye. “I wouldn’ta minded.”

Kenma shrugged. “He kinda exhausts me. Even on the phone. He’s been texting all day, which was fine, but then he wants to know what I got, and what I’m doing, and how I’m celebrating and...” He kicked the rug in front of him.

“That ain’t your thing,” Kuro replied. He grinned again, that tug at the one corner of his mouth, that some people found sly, but Kenma knew meant he was genuinely pleased. “I got ya somethin’, birthday boy.”

Feeling his cheeks flush under the intensity of Kuro’s gaze, he turned away. “You shouldn’t have. Aren’t you broke?”

“Hey, it ain’t much, and ... uh ... Yaks deserves some credit, ‘cause he helped.”

“’Nother cake?” Kenma asked as Kuro unpacked a tin from the holdall he’d hauled through the window.

“Nah, better than that,” Kuro whispered. In his hand was a plate draped with a cloth. With all the pizzazz of a magician, Kuro whipped away the cover, presenting his gift under Kenma’s nose. “Ta-da!”

It was crumbling, the journey probably hadn’t served it well, and something oozed from the sides. There’d been an attempt at decoration, a latticework of twisting pastry (which he figured had been Yaku’s attempt to make it look better) and a coating of icing sugar, heavier on the burnt edges, no longer white but a sludgy yellow colour.

It was the worst attempt at apple pie that he’d ever seen. In the top ten of crappity pies, this was the leader by a long, long way, and that included the time his mum had made a pie, left it out to cool, and Kuro had headed a ball through the open kitchen window where it had landed slap bang in the middle of the pie.

But Kuro had baked it. And Kuro was here.

“Thank you,” Kenma muttered.

And for the first time that day, he meant it. 


End file.
